Comprehension
by beautifully-rational
Summary: Post-Reichenbach - A year has passed, battles have been fought, and the world has moved on. But John Watson hasn't. Sherlock/John - John/OC - contents of this fic may be triggering - SEMI-HIATUS
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: **_**_ This will be a multi-chapter post-Reichenbach. Not guaranteeing anything about the content xD A_**_** huge thank you goes to TARDIS Blue Carbuncle for beta reading :)**_

_**I really hope you enjoy! Please review if you like it - reviews will be appreciated so much! Thank you and enjoy!**_

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John Watson had to stop doing this. 'This' being; wandering through Newport Cemetery, his path always winding towards the black headstone which read 'Sherlock Holmes'. He plops down in front of it rather unceremoniously; his legs sprawled out in front of him, his arms pressed to the ground behind him.

"It's the crack of dawn, Sherlock, and the first thing which reaches my mind is you." He says, speaking loudly to the grave stone in front of him. "My therapist said I should stop doing this." He pauses to swallow. He hesitates. "It's been a year, Sherlock. When are you going to stop doing this? When are you going to stop being –" His voice breaks. "– _dead_?"

He is greeted with silence, like usual. He awaits an answer for what seems like an eternity, but his watch tells him it's only been five minutes.

John sighs heavily, and slowly picks himself up off the ground. He puts one foot in front of the other, slowly making his way closer to the black headstone. He lays his hand on top of it, feeling the cool marble under his fingertips.

"I can't –" His voice breaks again. "I can't do this anymore..." He begins to caress the marble gently. "Come back to me." He breathes in sharply, closing his eyes. He waits for an answer. "_Please_."

He feels the tears come, and he makes no effort to stop them. They roll down his cheeks and eventually find their way to the grass below. He lets his hand fall from the headstone, and soon he's kneeling on the ground, his head pressed against the cool rock. The tears still run, tickling his cheeks and gracing the earth beneath.

His breath comes in sharp hisses as he sobs, his whole frame shaking as he is sprawled on the ground by the gravestone. He lets his eyelids slip closed and he cries.

John isn't sure how long he sits there for, his forehead pressed against Sherlock's headstone. But when he does open his eyes, his watch reads nine pm – he's been sitting here a good four hours.

He says goodbye to Sherlock as he pushes himself to his feet, forcing his legs to take him away from the black marble. He strolls back through the cemetery, until eventually he finds his way onto the street again.

He's halfway to his flat when his phone goes off. It's an unfamiliar sound, one which John doesn't recognize until it goes off again and on the third alarm, he pulls it out of his jean pocket. The screen tells him he has three new messages in the course of two minutes.

He unlocks the phone with the digits 7437 as he turns another corner, accidentally shouldering a woman in the side as he walks. He mumbles a half-hearted apology, but still keeps his head down to read.

_I've got the day off today. I was wondering if you'd like to come round for a coffee. – GL_

_If you don't that's fine, but the offer's still there. – GL_

_John? – GL_

A sinking feeling suddenly settles in John, and he knows it's because Lestrade is worried for him. A year has gone by since The Fall (or as the newspapers like to call it – The _Jump_) today. Sherlock has been gone for a year. It seems surreal, but most of it John spent in his flat. He spent it alone, with only brief visits to his therapist, because Mycroft so kindly paid for the sessions.

He automatically presses the reply button as he finishes reading over the three texts again. He watches the little cursor blink, almost demanding him to tell Lestrade he'd happily come over for a drink. He doesn't want to. But his therapist was constantly nagging him to catch up with his friends; a coffee with Lestrade would shut her up for a little while.

_I'll be over in five. – JW_

He presses send. He pauses in his stroll on the sidewalk, momentarily forgetting where Lestrade's flat was. He hadn't been there since the funeral. He realizes, as he remembers where to walk, that he hasn't had a proper conversation with Lestrade for over a year.

He hasn't spoken to Molly, Donovan, Anderson... _anyone_. Anyone who had previously had any connection to Sherlock.

The only people he's spoken to have been his therapist and a hunk of black marble. And occasionally Mycroft, but did that even count?

He reaches Lestrade's flat in ten minutes, according to his watch, and raps on the door with his two front knuckles. It immediately swings open to reveal Lestrade, a very sham smile planted on his face.

He looks older, John realizes as he moves inside, coaxed in by Lestrade's hand. His hair has gotten lighter, if possible. His face is more creased and worn, and the lines on his forehead have gotten more pronounced.

"Was it two sugars for you?" The detective inspector called from the kitchen. John was now seated in the lounge room.

John swallowed. Sherlock always had two sugars. "No sugars, thanks." He corrected.

Lestrade came out a minute later, two steaming cups of coffee in his hands. He sets John's down first. He then plops down on the lounge opposite and sets his own mug down. He gives John another false smile.

"It's been a while," Lestrade says, opening the conversation. John nods. "How have you been?" John hears the unspoken '_coping_' hang in the air.

"Considerably well." He answers. It feels like a lie, and both men know it is. "How about you?"

"Fine." Lestrade responds. "Work's keeping me busy." He tries to change the subject away from what John knows is going to come up. "Since Anderson and Donovan have been demoted, I've got so much paperwork."

John arches an eyebrow. "Demoted?"

"It's the least I could do for him." Lestrade replies.

John winces. He can't help it. Lestrade notices immediately and he hides his apologetic expression by taking a sip from his coffee.

There's nothing said for quite a long time. Lestrade hides behind his mug and John looks at his cup longingly. He wishes he hadn't agreed to this in the first place. He wasn't feeling hungry or, in the least, thirsty.

"I never thought I'd miss him." Lestrade eventually brings the topic back. John shifts his gaze to his feet. "He's the most arrogant dickhead I've ever met, but oh god John, I _miss_ him."

"Me too." His voice is small. He barely recognizes it.

Lestrade utters a heavy sigh. "One bloody year. You never thought it would go so quickly." He sets his coffee down. He draws out a long breath. "I still can't believe he's gone."

John finds himself nodding in agreement. He stops himself when he realizes. This past year had in no way gone quickly. Most of it had consisted of being cooped up in his apartment and trips to the cemetery and the therapy clinic. He felt like it had been an eternity. An eternity without Sherlock.

"How's your job going?" Lestrade changes the subject, and he's glad.

"I quit." He answers.

Lestrade recoils, but recovers quickly. "Do you get paid on army pension?"

"Mycroft." John tells him simply, and he nods in understanding. Mycroft had kept him fed this past year. He'd also paid the rent for John's flat. "I've never actually said thank you." He forces a laugh.

Lestrade doesn't say anything after that. John takes a sip of his coffee.

He thinks about it – the Mycroft caring for him business. He hadn't given much thought to it before now. All he knew was that when he went out, Mycroft's people would restock the fridge and pantry. And once a month, they would pay his rent and the bills, and then leave him to confide to himself in the tiny little flat. It seems like a repayment, in a way. As if he's saying sorry for letting Moriarty get hold of what he did.

"I suppose I'll let you enjoy your day off in peace." John begins to get up. Lestrade's brow creases.

"You haven't even been here five minutes." He observes.

"And I didn't plan on staying." He moves towards the corridor leading to the front door, his choice of words bitter. "It's been lovely seeing you again, Lestrade. It has." He rests his fingers on the knob.

"John." The detective inspector's voice suddenly sounds pleading. He turns away from the door to find Lestrade at the other end of the hallway. "I'm worried about you." His expression turns solemn. "Heck, even _I_ can't accept he's dead, even after a full year." He swallows. "You're cooped up in that flat with no one but you and your thoughts, and it's worrying me."

John sees immediately what the man is implying. "I want him back. But what gave you the idea I was going to follow him?" He asks.

Lestrade reddens. "If I can't accept it, it means you can't either." He begins to approach. "I saw how much it bothered you when he didn't eat or sleep, and I can't even begin to imagine how painful everything is for you now."

"I'm seeing a therapist." He assures Lestrade.

"I know." He responds. "But there's only so much therapy can do."

"What else do you want me to do?" John snaps suddenly. "Am I supposed to talk to her about him and how much I miss him? How much I want him back? I miss him beyond belief, Lestrade, but what else can I _do_?" He draws out a long breath. "I don't attend the therapy sessions to forget him."

Lestrade hesitates. "No one ever said you have to forget him."

"That's the impression I get." John returns harshly.

"People just want to see you happy again." Lestrade says. "Whether that means you forget him or not, I don't know, but everyone only wants to make sure you're fairing okay."

John scoffs. "And who is _everyone_?" He asks. He notes the sudden bitter tone in his voice, and isn't quite sure how it got there.

"He would have wanted you to be happy." Lestrade's voice is quiet. He avoids the question.

"Do you think he wants me to be happy about what he did?" He barks again. Lestrade blinks heavily. He remains silent. "I thought so."

"John." Lestrade is pleading again. "Promise me you'll talk to the therapist about _something_."

John doesn't have any suitable answers anymore. He flicks his eyes to the ground as his fingers brush the knob again. He pulls the door open without another word and Lestrade's left standing in the corridor.

He strolls back to his flat after that. He gets no texts from Lestrade again and he's glad. He gets in and finds the food restocked. He sighs heavily and collapses backwards onto the bed; arms sprawled out beside him.

His thoughts drift to what he had said to Lestrade.

_I want him back. But what gave you the idea I was going to follow him?_

He wonders. He can't help but wonder.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: Woooo thanks to TARDIS Blue Carbuncle (thanks!), chapter two is finished and ready to go. It's a little longer than the first and sees a new character introduced. How exciting. xD Please enjoy, and feedback would be lovely!**_

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John's dreaming again. It's the same dream every night – he's watching Sherlock fall into oblivion, rooted to his place on the pavement. He just can't find the willpower to pull out of the nightmares anymore. He did at first, but he'd wake up crying. Sometimes there would be screaming, too.

He's at the climax of the dream now, and Sherlock's standing on the roof, the phone to his ear. John's got his phone to his ear too, and he's pleading for the consulting detective to come down and talk this out with him. His words are sharp and pained, and he's begging him to stop. A tear rolls down Sherlock's face – John can see it from his place on the ground. Sherlock then throws the phone to rooftop and looks down. John's screaming his name.

Sherlock spreads his arms wide and submits to the jump. His face is placid as he's falling, and then he's scrambling in mid-air, trying desperately to claw his way back up to the roof. John's running now. He can just summon the strength to move his limbs... but then John's on the ground and everything's slowing down and he can see Sherlock lying on the pavement bleeding his fantastic brain all over the concr –

Then John's staring at his flat ceiling. He draws out a long breath and wipes his face with his hands. His cheeks are wet; he's not surprised. He checks the digital clock on the bedside table, and it's two in the morning. He falls back into the pillows uttering a heavy sigh. He wipes his face again. His eyelids slip closed shortly afterwards and he's asleep again.

The next time John checks his clock, it's nine am. He realizes, as he pulls his jeans on, that he's got a session with his therapist today. He silently curses Mycroft. He doesn't know why the elder Holmes insists he keeps going to these sessions; he never has anything to say.

Soon enough he's out on the street. He's got his hands in his pockets and he feels stiff. The dreams had been vivid last night, and John knows it's because last night marked exactly one year since Sherlock's death.

Half an hour later he's at the therapy clinic, just on time. Just as Doctor Thompson walks into the waiting room he treads in, and she invites him into the little room with one of her warm smiles. She offers him his usual seat, he sits, and then she takes her own.

"Good morning John." She greets him like usual, and then equips herself with her clipboard and pen. "How are you feeling this morning?" She crosses one leg over the other, and then leans expectantly in towards John for his answer.

John knows he's meant to be honest with her. Lestrade had swayed him a little bit with his pleas yesterday, but he honestly can't be bothered to talk about his feelings right now.

"I'm fine." He lies – it feels like a lie – and smiles a little just to convince her further.

She pouts, but then looks down to her clipboard and makes some notes. John's had enough practice at reading upside down, but Doctor Thompson seems to have had enough practice in playing therapist to John Watson. She's holding the clipboard up against her leg so John can only see the back. It frustrates him.

"What did you do yesterday?" She asks.

"I went to see Lestrade for a little while." He answers honestly. "It was only five minutes over a coffee, but we had a chat."

She smiles encouragingly at her clipboard. "What did you talk about?"

"Work." He replies plainly.

"Are you looking at getting another job?" She continues with her calm questions as she notes down various things John can't read. He forgot he told her that he quit his job at St. Bart's.

He thinks about this. He's certainly considered getting a new job, along with opening a practice of his own. He isn't sure whether he'd be able to cope being around people again. He finds it easier to simply sit in his flat, staring a point in the wall. He isn't certain if he should tell her this.

He flicks his gaze to his feet. "I was thinking about opening my own practice." He tells her.

Doctor Thompson gives him a curious glance, and then comments, "That's a good idea, John." She notes down a few more things. She finishes with an exaggerated period on the paper, and looks up. "Are you still using your blog?" She then asks.

There's suddenly a sinking feeling in John's chest. He looks out the window and sucks in a deep breath. He hasn't been posting anything on his blog. He can't even bring himself to look at it. It screamed Sherlock, and it was so painful to think (although he already knew) he was gone.

The pointless questions go on for about an hour. He's feeling even more depleted than before by the end of it. The subject occasionally drifts towards Sherlock and his feelings about the one year mark, but he manages to steer it away.

When it's time to go she tells him the session fee has already been paid (by Mycroft) and he can go. He walks out of the clinic shortly afterwards, head down and hands in pockets. He's in the middle of sulking, half way down the path which leads up to the entrance to the clinic, when there's a rather loud cry of surprise, followed by a heavy sigh.

He turns to find the source, and from the papers scattered over the floor and the distraught-looking woman standing over them, John assumes that she dropped all her papers everywhere. He hesitates for a moment, noticing she's alone, but then decides to go and help her pick them up.

"Thanks." She says when he begins to help. John gives her a nod in response, but nothing more.

He tries not to look at the papers as he picks them up, to give the woman her privacy. He fails, however, and notices most of them are bank statements with what he assumes the woman's address printed clearly on the top.

There's now one paper left on the ground and he and the woman both go for it at the same time. Their fingers brush each other's and they both recoil immediately, but then both go for it again. The woman utters a nervous giggle. John decides to withdraw first, and so the woman picks up the last paper and sets it neatly on her pile.

"Thanks. I'm so clumsy today." She claims.

John smiles as he picks himself up off the ground. "It was my pleasure..." He trails off, hinting he wants the woman's name.

"Mary." She catches on. "Mary Morstan."

As he stands up, he takes it as an opportunity to examine the woman before him. Mary has long blonde hair which was currently tied up in a messy ponytail, and he's pretty sure her eyes are a deep brown. She's wearing light makeup, but the freckles on her nose and cheeks still poke through slightly. She's dressed in a white singlet with laced straps, and jeans which look a little too big for her.

"John Watson." He holds out his hand, but Mary doesn't take it. She seems to be examining him now, too. "Nice to meet you."

She arches an eyebrow instead. "You're John Watson?" She questions with a little laugh. "You're the one who wrote the blog about you and Sherlock Holmes' adventures?"

John winces. He bites his tongue. "Yes."

"Sorry." She seems to have noticed his discomfort about the topic. "Well... uh..." She stumbles for words.

"It was nice to meet you." John decides to say. "But I've got places to be." He lies.

"Oh, yeah." She smiles awkwardly. She changes her grip on her papers. "Nice to meet you too."

John gives her a curt nod before turning and walking away. He doesn't see where she goes, but he assumes it would be to the clinic. He doesn't know why a woman like her would need therapy, but he decides it's none of his business.

He reaches his apartment eventually, but then decides he doesn't feel like being cooped up inside today. He takes to strolling around London.

His stroll lasts all afternoon; by the end of it, he ends up in a bar not far from his apartment. He only has enough for a few drinks, but by the end of the third bottle, he's feeling rather happy. The happiness comes in like a wave, drenching all his torments in warm and fuzzy feelings. He's giggling and he's pretty sure he's flirting with the woman sitting next to him.

Half way through the fourth one, the wave of giddiness suddenly dries off and reality hits him right in the chest. Sherlock suddenly overwhelms him and he's choking on air. He can smell him – aftershave mixed with the musty smell of 221B. He can feel him – the fabric of his wool coat and that ridiculous blue scarf between his fingertips. He can hear him – the scratchy violin tempos and the days of silence which often follow. What disturbs him most is that he can't _see_ him. He can't find Sherlock. Sherlock's always been there... ever since John moved in that fantastic genius has always been there for him, even if he is an arrogant dickhead. Where was Sherlock?

Hot tears are staining his cheeks but he doesn't quite notice, as the fifth bottle makes it rather hard to tell moisture from aridness.

He realises he's out of money once he orders his sixth and can't produce any more notes. The bartender gives him a concerning look before grumbling to himself as he serves his next customer.

He's now quite aware of his loud and choked sobs as he sits there and soon enough his head is pressed into the counter, begging to disappear into it.

All of a sudden there's a hand on his shoulder and he flinches from the sudden contact, almost falling off the bar stool.

He wipes his puffy eyes and searches for the source of the touch, and once he puts two and two together, realises it was a woman. And as his vision adjusts even more, he realises she looks awfully familiar.

"Hello." She says simply, calmly. He's surprised at how tranquil she sounds – he must look like (and sound like) a wreck. "Are you alright?" She asks.

It takes him a moment to translate the sounds coming from the woman's mouth into words. After a long moment of silence between them he nods, and she smiles.

"Do you need to go home, John?" She questions.

John blinks. "Yes." He says, but he's not quite sure why he says it.

"Where do you live?" She gets up from the bar stool next to him slowly. She then offers him her hand. He takes it unconsciously. "I hope it's not too far, because my car doesn't have much fuel left."

He smiles at this, but again he isn't quite sure why. "Just around the corner." He manages to articulate.

"I'll walk you, then." She declares.

Ten minutes later he's in his flat and the familiar-looking woman is there too. She's coaxing him into lying down because apparently sleep will help his head. He's babbling about something, and it takes him a long moment to realise he's telling her about Sherlock. She's just nodding and smiling as he talks and he doesn't know why it makes him feel better.

Soon he's crying again and she's stroking his palm gently and he's tired and everything's spinning and then Sherlock's there, on the roof, and he's screaming his name and –

John's eyes fly open and he's staring at his flat ceiling again. He glances to the clock on his bedside table, but the numbers are fuzzy and he can only make out the shape. Then his head starts throbbing and he can't contain the groan. He rolls onto his back again and runs his hands down his face.

He feels sick. But he can't summon the energy to walk to the bathroom. He also doesn't want to stand up because he's afraid he's going to get caught in the cacophony which was his spinning bedroom floor.

He eventually closes his eyes and when he opens them again its light inside the flat. The sunlight hurts his head so he hides under the covers. It's hot under the covers so he pulls them off, but it's too light so he stuffs his head deep into the pillow.

He doesn't feel sick any more. He just has a killer headache.

John isn't sure how long he stays like this, but when he does finally look up again, the light doesn't hurt his head so much. He manages to sit up. He realizes he's still dressed in what he wore to the clinic yesterday. He utters a heavy sigh as he rubs his face again. He really wants a shower.

Two minutes later he's standing under the running water and he begins to feel a little more awake. The headache slowly goes away as the warm water runs down him, and when he steps out, he's feeling a little better. He gets dressed in some fresh clothes.

He realises, disturbingly, that he can't remember what happened last night. He remembers going to a bar, but he's sure he didn't have that many drinks. His suspicions are settled when he discovers his once-stocked wallet empty beside the bed. John draws the conclusion he was very drunk last night.

That would explain why he feels like crap right now, at least.

He notices, as he makes the bed, that there's a note left on the bedside table for him. It's underneath the digital clock (which reads 11:37). He pulls it out and examines it, curious. Its Mary's number, he realizes. The woman he met yesterday. But he isn't quite sure what it's doing in his flat.

A wave of horror suddenly rushes over him as he glances to the bed again. Did he...? He reddens. He was drunk and Mary was here... which means a multitude of things could have happened. He grabs his mobile immediately and dials the number.

Mary answers the phone on the fourth ring. "_Hello?_"

"Mary?" John questions at first.

"_Oh, hello._" She says. "_Feeling better?_"

He doesn't answer. "What happened last night?" He asks, flustered.

"_You were pretty wasted, so it's not a surprise you don't remember._" She laughs.

"Please tell me it wasn't a one-night stand." He says to her.

She actually laughs properly this time. "_I saw you in the bar on my way home. You didn't look very happy, so I offered to take you home. You complied, surprisingly, and you told me all about Sherlock on the walk there._"

John sucks in his breath, and then draws it out slowly. "How many drinks did I have?"

"_They were five or six bottles at the bar when I got there, I think._" She replies.

"I'm so sorry." He apologizes. "I didn't mean to ruin your evening like that."

"_It's alright._" She assures him. "_You looked like you needed someone. And after what you told me about your friend, I think you _do_ actually need someone._" She chuckles nervously.

"I'm fine." He assures her. "It was just a hard day yesterday." He hesitates. "It was a year since he went."

"_I know._" She answers. "_You told me._"

John swallows. "Sorry."

Mary laughs again. "_It's alright, John, really. I understand what you're going through._"

"Do you want to... uhh..." He trails off. "... talk about things over a coffee?"

"_Sounds nice._" She agrees. "_I'm just down the road, anyway. The little café on the street corner. See you soon?_"

"Yeah." John says. "See you soon."

The line goes dead. John puts his phone down slowly. He isn't sure why, but he's actually quite looking forward to a coffee with his new friend.


	3. Chapter 3

John arrives at the café at 11:53 am, presentable and wallet re-stocked from the ATM. He spots Mary upon entrance; she's sitting in the far right corner of the little shop by herself. She offers him a smile before beckoning him over with a wave of her hand. He finds himself smiling back as he walks over, and then takes the seat across from her.

"Sorry," John says immediately, "for ruining your evening again..."He pauses. "I just, ah... things have been hard. Recently. And it sort of seemed like a good idea at the time..."

"I understand," Mary says with yet another smile.

John continues. "It just felt really wrong for me to, uh, do that. To you. When you surely had better things to do..."

"It really is _fine_, John. Believe me," She declares again, this time a little impatiently.

John nods curtly before examining the table in front of him. It's empty – the only things present are the menu, salt and pepper. "You didn't have to wait." John tells her quietly.

"Well, I did," Mary replies. "So tough." She grins again. John laughs uneasily. Mary seems to notice. "I think that meeting at the clinic was a little informal," She says. "and last night didn't _really_ count." She adds slowly, and John smirks slightly. "So, yes. I'm Mary Morstan." She offers her hand across the table. John takes it. "Very pleased to meet you." She shakes his hand.

John blinks. "I'm John Watson." He smiles awkwardly, still shaking. "It's nice to meet you too." He takes his hand back and then rubs his chin. "When we first met at the clinic; you, uh, said you read my blog." The sentence sounds like an accusation, so John adds, "Not many people do anymore, so..."

"I read it a while ago, actually." Mary answers, interrupting. "A couple of weeks after he jumped –"John corrects in his head – '_fell'_. "– I read through it because it sounded interesting, really. All the stuff about Richard Brook –"

"Moriarty." John says spontaneously.

Mary gives him a quizzical look. "Did they turn out to be the same person?" She then questions after a moments silence. "Or was it true that Richard Brook was an actor Sherlock –" John winces. "– hired?"

John grabs the menu at the end of the Mary's question. He doesn't feel comfortable about discussing this with her (he never did with anyone); his hands are beginning to get sweaty, and he has to pause every few moments to take a deep breath to steady himself. Fortunately, Mary seems to notice. She picks up the menu as well and begins to browse.

"I'm sorry." She apologises from behind the laminated card. "He must have meant a lot to you." She continues to read as if she hadn't said a thing.

"It's okay." John replies. "I just..." He sets the menu down on the table suddenly. Mary looks at him over hers. "It's not something I want to talk about." He says. "It's not something I _can_ talk about..."

Mary gives him a slow nod, but then sets her menu down so she can see John's face. "You can't keep dwelling on him, John." She says. "Someday you're going to have to move on and accept that he's no longer here."

"I've tried." John answers earnestly. "I've gone to all the therapy sessions and still can't bring myself to look at the blog..." He sighs. "I don't want to talk about it." He then says firmly.

Silence falls between them. Mary orders but John doesn't. They sit there awkwardly. Until finally Mary asks softly, "Have you tried saying goodbye?"

John blinks heavily at her. "How would that help?" He inquires.

"It gives you a sense of closure." Mary answers.

John blinks again. He digests this fact slowly – would it help? He can't even bring himself to say the truth aloud as it is. He ultimately looks up at Mary again.

"I'll try it." He vows to her, although it feels like a lie. "Thanks."

She inclines her head with a small smile. "You're welcome." She says.

Silence falls again. Mary receives the coffee she ordered, whereas John simply orders water – Mary was smiling at him as the waiter repeated the request. As she sips her coffee the silence grows unbearable. The only break is the waiter bringing the glass of water, and by then both John and Mary are smiling at each other.

"So –" They both begin speaking at the same time. Mary laughs. "You first." She insists.

He smiles gently. "What do you do for a living?" John asks her.

"I'm a private tutor." She answers. "For younger children, mostly." She adds, and then smiles. "It doesn't get much better than that." She pauses. "What about you?"

"A doctor." John replies. "Though if you've read the blog that should be obvious." He adds with a smile. "I used to work at St. Bart's but I quit a few weeks after what happened, so now I'm getting paid on army pension." He elaborates. _And Mycroft seems to be paying me out of pity._ He adds internally.

"Are you going to work again?" Mary asks.

"I was thinking about opening my own practice in London." John tells her. "But I don't have the resources or the time, so I'll probably end up going back to work at a local hospital again."

"Oh," She comments idly, obliviously lost for anything else to say.

Silence falls yet again, although John ensures it doesn't drone on too long this time. "Do you come here often?" He asks, looking around the cosy café. "It's nice," He comments.

Mary's face falls a little as she takes another sip from her mug. "It's a good place to think." She alleges.

Suddenly John's brain is jumping to conclusions. He unconsciously puts all the happenings of the past few minutes into a group in his head and realises there's a rather obvious through-line. Mary's reaction, accompanied with her sudden care and interest for John must only mean...

"You used to come here with your husband." John says. His eyes then widen as he realizes what he just said aloud.

Mary chokes on her drink. "Excuse me?" She asks sharply. John clasps both hands over his mouth.

"I..." John attempts to explain himself, but even _he_ doesn't know where the statement came from. Since when did he have a tendency for voicing internal conclusions? "Mary, I..." He continues to splutter.

She quiets him with a glare. And then she gets up from the table and walks away, coffee discarded. John follows her, his water also forgotten. He follows her out onto the street. The first bench which protrudes into Mary's line of sight is the one she chooses to collapse on, and it just so happens to be in the park where Mike Stamford first told John about Sher- _him_.

John reluctantly takes a seat next to her. Mary is curled over so her head is touching her knees, and it's very obvious she isn't very keen on talking to John right now.

But John starts anyway. "I'm sorry." He apologizes. She mumbles something that sounds similar to, "Go away." John swallows. "I don't know why I said that." He articulates this time round. "It just came out..." He trails off, a sudden realization hitting him. "Oh god – I sounded just like him."

Mary actually looks up at him. She has tears in her eyes. "My husband –" She begins suddenly, but then stops herself.

"You don't have to tell me." John says.

She sniffs. "It's only fair you know." She takes a deep breath and then draws it out. "You told me about Sherlock, anyway. So it's only fair I tell you about mine."

The way Mary says 'mine' sends shivers down John's spine. She speaks it like John can barely speak Sher– _his_ name. John finds himself scooting closer to Mary. She tenses as John awkwardly drapes an arm over her shoulder.

"My husband was in the military." Mary begins. John nods. "He was deported to Iraq about six months ago." She continues. "He always used to take me to that coffee shop. Every morning without fail. It's where he proposed to me and it's where he told me about Iraq." She swallows. "About three weeks ago I got the phone call."

John's stomach drops and he tightens his grip around Mary's shoulders. She sniffs again.

"It was from the person who was in charge of his battalion." She informs John. "He told that my husband was dead."

"What happened?" John couldn't help but ask.

"He hung himself." Mary answers stiffly. "He didn't want to be deported in the first place because he didn't want to see all the innocent people suffering. It made lots of people question why he joined the army, but he always told them he wanted to honour his country and keep it safe." She utters. "He saw exactly what he dreaded and couldn't handle it." She takes a shaky breath. "They found him the next morning and it was too late to try and save him."

"I'm so sorry." John says immediately. He's lost for words. It makes his loss seem like nothing.

Mary leans into John. She takes another shaky breath and then swallows. "I just wish I could have said goodbye." She says softly.

John instantly feels guilty. The words 'Goodbye, John' echo in his head. He swallows as well.

"When I saw you for the first time at the clinic I knew you were feeling what I felt." Mary begins again. "And so I looked up your address and went to your flat. When you weren't there I went to the bar, knowing that's where I would go."

It surprises John to discover Mary lied to him. But he also isn't surprised at the same time. It seems all she wanted was someone who was suffering the way she was. John looked at the ground.

"When I finally found you at the bar you were too inebriated to be coherent, so I thought it'd be nice of me to take you home." She continues. "It felt right to take care of you." She says.

"Thank you." John says unconsciously.

Mary smiles. After a moment's silence she begins again, "You told me on the walk to your flat suicide wasn't a man's way out of things." She stiffens under John's protective grip. "But then you told me you weren't a man. And if you had to, you'd follow him. Because you so badly want him back."

John is surprised to hear his drunken works reiterated through someone as coherent as Mary. In all honestly, he doesn't remember saying that to her. John has always been an honourable man, anyway. He would never take the coward's way out. He had always been a strong person. _His_ death was the one thing that managed to break him.

"I've never thought about killing myself." John answers when he realizes he hadn't replied to Mary's question.

But he has. Just once. After seeing Lestrade yesterday. He had dwelled on it for only a few brief moments – what would it be like if he were dead? He hadn't thought about it beforehand. John didn't know why the thought had occurred to him sooner, considering _his _fashion of departure.

"Don't." Mary says almost inaudibly.

John blinks heavily. "I promise." He says, but it feels completely like a lie.

John and Mary remain on the park bench for a long time. Not once do they move. They sit together; John's arm draped over Mary's shoulder, and Mary's head pushed into John's chest. Anybody walking by would assume them to be human-like statues or a very dedicated couple. But no one stares.

Eventually it's Mary who moves first. She slowly pulls her head away and looks at the pavement. "Was there ever anyone for you?" She asks quietly. "Or have you never been in love?"

John removes his arm from around Mary's shoulders. He dangles both hands between his legs and looks down at the pavement also. "I've dated a lot of women, but I don't think I've actually loved any of them." John answers. "There was one woman though, but there isn't exactly a word to describe our relationship." He adds.

"Romantically involved but not?" Mary suggests with an awkward laugh.

John makes a noise of approval from the back of his throat. "Her name was Sarah." He informs Mary. "We'd go on dates together and the likes, but we never actually kissed." He says. "There would be occasional shagging if we had a little too much wine, but I don't think I'd ever call it a relationship."

"So you've never been in love?" Mary asks. She seems interested.

John nods. Mary sighs from beside him. He looks at her. She looks back. She blinks, smiles and then looks away again. John looks up at the park. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the grass and the trees. Nature has always made him feel like a child.

"Do you want to grab some proper lunch?" John finds himself asking Mary. She looks surprised. "There's a lovely place Sherlo– _Sherlock_ used to take me." He actually speaks the fallen detective's name now. Mary smiles at him.

"I bet he had wonderful taste." She comments with another smile.

John nods in agreement. He offers Mary his hand. "The owner always used to insist we were dating." He catches himself telling her. "Strangely, neither of us minded."

They begin walking towards the street again, hand in hand. "Did you love him?" Mary asks gently.

The question catches John off guard. He runs over the past year in his head, considering how much he had mourned for the person he had only known eighteen months. It had felt like a lifetime. A lifetime with and an eternity without. He doesn't actually have an answer to the question.

"Any person who saw us on the street together would assume we were in love." John answers. "But I don't know what I was to him, but to me he was like an escape." He says. "I was alone and hurting after what happened in Afghanistan, and he came along and things got better." He considers what he had said about Sarah. "I don't think there's a word to describe what we were." John continues. "It was more than flatmates and colleagues. We were just... _us_."

The explanation sounds funny in his head. Mary is simply nodding in understanding. She squeezes his hand.

"He meant everything to you, didn't he?" She asks as they stroll.

John blinks. "Yes." He says. "He did."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: For those of you who have forgotten what the last three chapters have been about... it's just John. xD John has a fight with Lestrade and then John meets Mary. Suicide is touched on just a little bit but it's not the main focus. This chapter is set six months after the previous one.**

**Thank you to TARDIS Blue Carbuncle for editing! Enjoy lovelies. x**

* * *

_Six months later..._

It's a cold winter's morning in London; snow covered the ground, making the day seem colder than it was. The setting was perfect; a miserable day with a chilling wind biting at the ankles of anyone who dared to walk the streets. It was just the perfect scene to say goodbye.

John Watson climbs out of Mary's car outside Newport Cemetery. He looks back at his fiancée in the driver's seat of the car and she offers him an encouraging smile. He returns the gesture, takes a moment to gather himself, and then approaches the gate to the cemetery.

_John's dreams are much more peaceful now; there is less Sherlock and more Mary. He doesn't dread falling asleep anymore. He feels much happier during the day. He feels more at peace with the fact Sherlock is gone, and more at peace with himself. He doesn't know where he'd be right now without Mary._

_They had remained friends at first, but after more lunches and eventually dinners, something sparked between them. John had said goodbye to her and she to him. It had been a cold evening, though the restaurant they had dined at that night had made him feel much warmer._

He hugs himself as he walks through the snow and towards Sherlock's headstone. He reaches it – it isn't that hard to spot a black piece of marble in amongst the snow on the ground.

He hesitates for a moment as he nears, but then presses on until his gloved hand is resting on top of the marble. He takes a moment to gather himself again by looking around the cemetery, but then decides he ought to get this over and done with.

_John had begun to walk back to his flat, for it was only three blocks away, but Mary offered him a lift home. On the drive, it was somehow decided between them that their destination tonight would actually be Mary's house. The car was parked in the garage, John had been bustled inside by the widely smiling Mary and then she had been all over him._

_He had accepted her more than happily, and it wasn't long before they were both in Mary's bedroom in nothing but their underwear._

_After that night their lunches and dinners turned into dates. Kisses were shared and romantic meals were had. They had only known each other six months and yet they fit together like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle; they were meant for each other – true soul mates. _

_And so after John finished his last counselling session with Ella at the clinic, he went out and bought a ring. They had eaten together at the café , talked about what-not and then John had proposed._

_It had been nothing special at all. He had finished his food, pushed his plate aside, and then grasped both her hands in his. He had reached into his coat pocket and set the box on the table. She pulled a hand away, covering her mouth, but John had still continued. He used his free hand to open the box, revealing the beautiful diamond ring and asked her simply, "Will you marry me?"_

He takes a deep breath. "Sherlock." he says. "I..." he trails off, unsure of what to say. It takes him a moment, but he finally continues, "The last thing I told you was that you were a machine." He swallows. "I regret that, you know? Because you were my friend. My best friend. My _only_ friend." He swallows again. "But it's hurting to keep dwelling on you. I miss you, Sherlock, but I think it's best I say goodbye." he says, a lump forming in his throat as he spoke. "I met a woman. She's different from all the others, Sherlock. She understands me. I want to focus on starting a new life with her. I have to leave you behind..." he continues. He hesitates again, looking around the cemetery. "I have to focus on her. I... I have to say goodbye." He squeezes his eyes shut, taking a deep breath. "Goodbye, Sherlock." he concludes with an incline of his head.

_John had been expecting her to decline. But her other hand joined the other over her mouth, and she simply nodded. She then removed her hands, wiping her face down and then grabbed onto John's hands again._

_"Oh my God... John! I... of course. Of course I will." she had answered._

_It took a moment, but then the café broke out into applause. _

_Mary later told John she almost cried, and then even later told him it had reminded her of the way her deceased husband had proposed to her. He continually apologised that he was taking this too fast, but Mary assured him she was absolutely fine with it. She told him she loved him and she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. He had repeated the same to her._

_That was the moment John decided he was going to take Mary up on the first piece of advice she gave him – say goodbye to Sherlock. He decided he was going to dedicate himself to her and let them build their new lives out of the ruins of their old ones. He was going to be Mary's, and Mary was going to be John's._

_But in amongst the happiness of the engagement and the happiness of having Mary around, there was always the stray thought of suicide deep down in John's thoughts and dreams._

John turns away then. He wrings his hands as he walks back to where Mary parked her car. He isn't cold anymore.

* * *

Molly Hooper hands Sherlock Holmes the newspaper. He regards her with a slightly puzzled look, but takes it anyway and glances at the front page.

"The second page." The morgue assistant points out helpfully just as Sherlock sets it down on the table, disinterested.

He concurs to her suggestion and opens the newspaper, his eyes skimming over the words on the page. He reaches halfway when he does a double a take. He sets the newspaper down again, eyeing Molly as she retrieves her breakfast from the countertop.

"Moran has been arrested." He repeats what he just read in a matter-of-factly tone.

She nods. "I thought you'd be interested to know." she claims.

He reads the article again quickly. "I am." he confirms. He looks back at Molly. "But that's not why you asked me to see you." he says.

He sees her lips twitch up, forming the hint of a smile. She sets down her knife and fork on the plate in front of her, disregarding her breakfast. She clasps her hands in her lap underneath the table, and gives Sherlock a sad look.

"It's John." she begins simply.

He begins to read the newspaper again. "What about John?" he asks.

"He's engaged." she tells him.

"But?" he prompts.

Her eyes flick to the ground for moment, but then centre on Sherlock again. "But Lestrade is still worried about him." she adds. "They haven't spoken since their fight a couple of months ago. He's stopped his counselling at the clinic." she elaborates.

He looks up from the paper. "Where's John's old flat?" Sherlock asks suddenly, off topic.

Molly looks puzzled. "I... I don't know." she answers. "But that's not what we're talking about." she says.

"Yes, but Moran was arrested a block away from where John used to live." he continues. "That is much, much more than a coincidence. Moriarty doesn't have – "

"Sherlock." Molly interrupts, though her voice is soft.

He quiets. "What were you saying about John?" he asks.

"People are still worried about him." she repeats.

He looks down at the paper once again. "Worried he's finally moving on from me? I thought that would be a good thing." he points out.

Molly falters. "It is, but –"

"Do you have last week's newspaper?" he queries.

Molly sighs. "Sherlock, please." she entreats. "John is your friend. No one wants to see him hurt himself, and you _especially_ shouldn't." she continues.

"John is a grown man." Sherlock retorts. "He can take care of himself. And what did you say before? He's engaged, wasn't it? Obviously he's found someone else to 'live for', as you like to put it." he continues. Molly opens her mouth to counteract, but he continues nevertheless, "I know Mycroft has entrusted you to babysit me, Molly, and I know it was way out of your comfort zone at the time. I know you have changed since that day, and I know I have too." He pauses for a moment, considering his last statement. "But I am perfectly fine, and I'm sure John is as well." he concludes.

Molly hushes, her gaze focused in her lap. He knows she's fiddling with her fingers – it had become her habit. Mycroft had indeed trusted her with Sherlock as her responsibility. She was to make sure he was alright, and she was to talk to him about John and keep him updated about him. Occasionally he would spend the night, and then she would fiddle with more than her fingers. He felt for her, in a way, for he was very conscious of how big of a burden he was. John's reaction to his suicide had shown him this. It had taken him a long time to get his head around it.

He's drawn out of his brief musings by another newspaper being handed to him. Molly hides behind her cup of coffee as he takes it from her hand, opens it, and begins to read. He skims the first three pages and then sets it down.

"When was it... the news about the drug bust?" he asked her.

Molly sets her mug down. "I... um..." she trails off, her eyes flicking around the room. It was obvious his mini-speech had unsettled her. "I think it was last month. October." she answers eventually.

He pulls out his phone and searches for 'uk drugs bust october 2013' on Google. Molly eyes him as he does his quick research, though whenever he met her gaze, she would look away or down to her unfinished breakfast.

"Ah." he announces as a news article loads.

Molly's eyebrows go up slightly. "What?" she questions.

"Moran was arrested for burglary with a deadly weapon." he says. "A burglary of a hardware store in_ broad daylight_." he adds. "Moran is not that sloppy." he claims. "He wouldn't be caught unless he wants to be." he continues. "I have to see Lestrade." Sherlock says suddenly, grabbing both newspapers off the table and striding towards the door.

"Sherlock, wait!" Molly cries as he makes it into the corridor to her apartment. She's only dressed in her nightie. "Lestrade thinks you're dead, remember?" she pointed out.

He relaxes his form and then looks back at Molly. "Old habits." he alleges with a grim, Sherlock smile – the sort where his eyebrows would nearly reach his hairline, and his lips almost disappear into one another. He makes his way back towards Molly again, entering her apartment.

"I can talk to Lestrade." she offers shyly once the door is closed again.

"No." he disagrees.

She sighs softly. "Then at least tell me what's going on in that head of yours. Mycroft will want to know." she says.

Sherlock gives her a look. His lips quirk as he examines her, before rolling his eyes to look at the other side of the room. He then looks back at the small morgue assistant, his lips slightly parted.

"The drugs bust and Moran's arrest – I believe they're connected." he reveals.

"How?" asks Molly.

"Moriarty wouldn't have a right-hand man who gets himself caught in such an obvious robbery." he claims. "Moran _wants_ to be in a jail, and so he is there. Both the crimes are handled by the same police department, and so Moran and the drug dealers would go to the same jail."

"Moran wants the drug." Molly says suddenly.

Sherlock pauses for a moment, giving her a surprised look. She smiles slightly in return.

"Yes, Moran wants the drug." Sherlock confirmed. "But I don't know why."


	5. Chapter 5

_Three weeks later..._

Sergeant Donovan pokes her head into Gregory Lestrade's office. She's holding her mobile in one hand and a case file in the other.

Gregory Lestrade doesn't notice her at his door; he's too busy focusing on his paperwork.

"Sir?" she prompts and he finally takes note of her presence.

"Donovan?" he returns.

"You might want to see this," she claims and looks to the office outside, where many police officers are around the small television on the wall.

He tilts his head slightly, disregarding his paperwork and then gets up to join them. Donovan follows.

"... _Alleged criminal, Sebastian Moran has escaped from jail this morning after only being sentenced three weeks ago. He was arrested for a dangerous assault on a hardware store in downtown London," t_he female reporter on the TV says, and Lestrade swears aloud._ "Is it time to start questioning the effectiveness of our criminal containment facilities and our trust in our police officers_?" the female reporter asks.

Lestrade turns away from the television and to Donovan, blocking out the biased reporter behind him. "He _escaped_?" he asks to confirm because he's not sure if he heard the news right.

"Yeah. No one knows how. He just... disappeared," she replies, spreading her hands in a helpless gesture as she finishes.

"What are the prison staff saying?" he inquires after rubbing his chin with his hand. The other was pressed onto his hip.

"They haven't made a public statement yet... but they have spoken to the Chief," she informs him in response.

"And?" he prompts her to continue.

"And they have no idea either," she finishes. "He did just disappear. His cellmates claimed he was there when they went to sleep last night." she says. "And then they woke up and he was gone." she adds.

"Security footage?" he prompts, for criminals don't just go missing like that.

"Wiped."

"Witnesses?"

"None."

"_Anything_?"

Donovan shakes her head. There is silence between the two of them and Lestrade can hear the female reporter on the television behind him.

"_If anyone sees Moran, they are requested to contact Scotland Yard_. _Now onto our next story... drug dealers have been rife..._" she goes on, and Lestrade huffs because that wasn't going to do much good if people are questioning their trust in their police officers, is it?

"Oh, sir, there's also someone here to see you," Donovan claims. "I was going to tell you beforehand, but people escaping from prison seemed a little more important." she says with a little smug grin.

Lestrade nods in agreement. "Where are they?" he asks.

"In the lobby," Donovan answers. "Molly Hooper, I think her name was." she tells him.

"Molly?" he asks, his brow creasing.

Donovan nods. "Told me it was important," she adds.

"Thanks," Lestrade replies with a little nod and then goes off to meet the morgue assistant.

* * *

Molly Hooper looks up when she sees Lestrade appear in the lobby. He spots her after a moment of searching and walks over. She stands up but he tells her to sit back down, and so she does.

"You were an associate of Sherlock, right?" he asks her, and she nods. She just hides the knowing smile. "Well, any friend of his is a friend of mine," he claims with a small smile. "How can I help you?" he inquires.

"I... I wanted to talk about Sebastian Moran," she says slowly and uncertainly.

He gives her a funny look. "What about him?" he queries.

"His arrest," she responds. She swallows. She's nervous; she thought talking about something she could speak with Sherlock about with Lestrade would be easy, but it wasn't.

"I'm not supposed to discuss –" Lestrade begins.

"I have information." she interrupts quietly, and Lestrade stops.

He creases his brow and looks at her disapprovingly. "What do you mean?" he asks in clarification, and Molly's surprised he didn't give her a lecture.

"The drugs bust in October," she begins, "it's connected with Moran's arrest," she claims.

Lestrade frowns. "How do you know?" he asks.

"Moran is a close associate of Jim Moriarty," Molly reveals. "Or Richard Brook," she adds after a brief debate with herself, as she isn't sure what story the Detective Inspector believes. He doesn't respond and so Molly continues, "The drug the dealers were dealing... Moran wants it. He got arrested so he could get into the same prison as the original dealers."

"They can't bring drugs into prison," Lestrade objects immediately.

"They must have," Molly returns. "Otherwise Moran wouldn't have gotten himself purposefully arrested for it," she says.

Lestrade digests this for a moment. He looks around the lobby as if the room will give him an answer to all his questions. He learns it won't and so he looks back to Molly. "How do you know all this?" he asks her.

She swallows. "I... I've been working closely with people," she replies vaguely.

Lestrade frowns and finally gives her the scolding look she'd been expecting. "I can have you arrested for withholding information from the police. If you know things, Molly, you should tell me." he says.

She avoids his gaze, focusing on her hands. "Not here," she says softly.

"Molly," he warns.

She looks at him and he looks back. "I can't tell you here," she repeats. "It's too dangerous," she claims.

"What place could possibly be safer than a police station?" Lestrade questions.

Molly hadn't prepared herself for these questions. She had come here with the intentions to tell the Detective Inspector, an old friend of Sherlock's, what was going on without revealing his old friend was actually very much alive. It was proving more difficult than she had expected.

"Come with me," she decides to say.

She knows it'll make Sherlock angry, but this was important. Moran was definitely planning something. Sherlock had said so himself.

Lestrade seems hesitant to her request but gets up to follow her as she reaches the double doors to get back to the streets outside.

"Well?" he asks as he stands with her on the pavement.

She hails for a cab and then returns, "When we get back to my apartment."

* * *

_Need u at my apartment. important. Molly_

Sherlock frowns at his phone and texts back, _I'll be there in five minutes. SH_

He pulls his hat further over his head and then hails a cab. He's just getting into the cab, informing the driver of Molly's apartment's location when his phone buzzes again.

He checks it as he sits down.

_lestrade with me. Molly_

He lets out a sigh. He suddenly feels nervous, an emotion he hadn't felt in quite a long while. Still frowning, he texts back, _You went to tell him, didn't you? SH_

As the driver takes the turn into her street three minutes later he gets his response.

_about moran. not u. Molly_

He responds as he steps out of the cab,_ I'm enlightened to hear it wasn't on purpose. SH_

She replies as he turns the key in the lock. He knows he beat her and the Detective Inspector because the police station was further away, and they would likely get stuck in traffic.

_i didn't mean to, ok? Molly_

He doesn't respond for he knows she and Lestrade will turn up soon. He can lecture her later, as well as tell Mycroft about it (at which time she will receive a bigger lecture).

He positions himself at the kitchen table with the morning paper, trying the part to make his appearance seem normal. Moran's escape would make the front page tomorrow, he mused as he read.

It was a full six minutes and a half later before he hears two people come up the stairs and walk down the hallway to Molly's apartment. The nervous feeling comes back. He tries to swallow it down but it was very stubborn.

The door opens and Sherlock lowers the newspaper to observe Molly and Lestrade's entrance. Molly locks eyes with him immediately as she comes through the door.

Lestrade does as well.

"Holy shit." he says.

Sherlock gives the Detective Inspector a cheery smile, one Molly describes as the 'Sherlock Smile'.

"You're not dead." Lestrade remarks.

"Obviously." Sherlock returns and the Detective Inspector lets out a laugh.

"You're not dead!" he exclaims again. "You're actually alive," he says. "He's actually alive?" he asks Molly, who nods.

Sherlock allows the appropriate amount of time for Lestrade to gather himself.

"Pleasantries aside, I need your assistance on Moran's case," Sherlock says, jumping straight into business.

"You sent Molly to see me?" he questions.

Sherlock shakes his head. "I told her specifically not to contact you but she chose to," he responds. "It's best the least possible amount of people know I'm still actually alive." he claims.

"Wait... so..." Lestrade begins, approaching Sherlock at the table. "I'm allowed to know, but John isn't?" he queries.

"It's vital that John believes I'm dead," Sherlock returns. "Because if John believes my death was real, then so will Moriarty's web." he claims.

"He wasn't coping well," Lestrade tells him.

"I'm aware," Sherlock assures. "Mycroft has been keeping an eye on him, and I'm aware he's found a woman, now." he says.

"Mary," Molly offers into the conversation helpfully.

Sherlock nods. "Mary," he repeats.

No one is sure what else to say about John and so Lestrade changes the subject. "How'd you do it?" he asks.

"Not now," Sherlock returns. "I need to find Moran and put to a stop to whatever he's doing," he says.

"You can't just... come back from the dead and not tell me how you did it," Lestrade objects with disappointed pout.

Sherlock ignores him. "Molly," he says, getting the attention of the small woman still standing awkwardly in the doorway, "call Mycroft, would you?" he requests.

She nods and goes to retrieve the phone.

Lestrade seats himself at the table. He's grinning. "So... have you been, you know..." He looks to where Molly had disappeared, still grinning. "staying over here? With Molly?" he asks.

Sherlock eyes him. "A few times, yes," he responds.

"And?" Lestrade prompts.

"It was to tend to injuries," Sherlock replies. "And occasionally if I was in London and needed a place to stay," he claims.

Lestrade's grin slowly slides off his face. "Injuries?" he asks, changing the subject.

"I have been taking down Moriarty's web," Sherlock responds. "They're spread all over the world," he claims. "I have a few members left to take out in London, Moran included, and then I will be able to come out of hiding," he says.

"You're hiding from Moriarty?" Lestrade questions.

"Moriarty is dead," Sherlock replies in a matter-of-factly tone.

Lestrade realizes his mistake and corrects himself, "Why are you hiding from his _web_, I meant."

"I staged my suicide to save your life, along with John's and Mrs Hudson's," Sherlock reveals. "And if the web were to learn I am actually alive, they will not hesitate to kill you," he said. Lestrade appears to gawk. "I'm taking down the web so nobody is able to kill you, John or Mrs. Hudson when I come back," he finishes.

"You jumped off a building for me?" Lestrade questions. He looks surprised.

"Partly," Sherlock answers.

Molly comes in holding the phone. She gives it to Sherlock. "It's Anthea," she tells him. "She's just getting him."

Sherlock nods and takes the phone, smiling at Molly in thanks. Lestrade's grin appears again.

"_Miss Hooper_?" Mycroft's voice inquires over the phone.

"No, it's brother dearest," Sherlock returns. He gets up from the table and makes his way into the sitting room where it's quieter and away from two sets of ears. "Have you looked into Moran's location?" he asks his brother.

"_I have agents working as we speak,_" Mycroft responds.

"Tell them to work faster," Sherlock presses. "He likely has the drug and I still don't know what he intends to do with it," he says.

"_John will be fine, Sherlock_." Mycroft assures. "_He and Mary are under watchful eyes._"

"I'm not concerned about John," Sherlock returns, and Mycroft snorts. He scowls although his brother can't see. "Lestrade," he says after a pause. "Molly went to see him, and now he's sitting at the kitchen table," he tells his brother, looking back to see he and Molly were talking.

There is silence from Mycroft for a moment. "_I would like to speak to her,_" he requests.

"Tell me as soon as you have even the slightest idea to where he is," Sherlock says, and then moves back to the kitchen to give the phone to Molly.

* * *

Molly takes the phone, giving Sherlock a confused look, but presses it to her ear regardless.

"Hello?" she asks.

"_Molly,_" Mycroft's voice begins. She swallows. "_I'm told you told Detective Inspector Lestrade about my brother,_" he says.

"I didn't mean to, really," she returns immediately. "It was honestly an accident... I was just worried... I mean, Sherlock always comes back with all these cuts and bruises and Moran's really dangerous and I wanted –"

"_It's alright, Molly,_" Mycroft interrupts with his voice completely level in comparison to her own. "_To have Scotland Yard on Sherlock's side will likely prove useful,_" he claims. "_Taking down Moran will be a big job, and likely won't be done as quietly as the other web members Sherlock has taken care of,_" he tells her.

She fumbles for an appropriate answer. "I... um..." she begins.

Mycroft chuckles. "_Give Lestrade my regards,_" he requests, and then hangs up.

Molly keeps the phone to her ear for a moment before setting it down. She looks to Sherlock and Lestrade. Sherlock is attempting to read the paper in front of him and Lestrade is trying to talk to him. He appears to be pressing questions about Sherlock's faked suicide.

The consulting detective was very good at ignoring him. They both look up when she approaches the table. "Well?" Sherlock prompts.

"He thinks it's good Lestrade knows," Molly tells him. "Because Moran... you know... he's probably going to be hard to get to," she reasons.

"I can keep Scotland Yard away," Lestrade translates, and Molly nods. "And don't worry, Sherlock, I won't tell anyone." he assures his old friend. "But when you finish with that web, make sure the first person you go and see is John," he tells him.

Sherlock gives Lestrade another Sherlock smile but offers no response. Lestrade gets up from the table.

"I have a job to get back to," he claims with a grin. "Call me if you need anything," he tells them both, and then turns to leave.


End file.
